


More A Man Than He'll Ever Be

by StygianSea



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Gen, also john can't chopsticks, but that's okay, slight angst, we still love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StygianSea/pseuds/StygianSea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am telling you, they don’t matter, Dorian,” John said, raising his voice. “Not to me, and not to anyone else who’s got a shred of common sense. Being a man – being human is so much more than just… eating, and sleeping, and being able to bleed. Dammit Dorian, it is so much more than that."</p>
<p>John tries to help him understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More A Man Than He'll Ever Be

**Author's Note:**

> Ohai, first fic in this fandom! Yay! :D
> 
> I keep talking about how much it lights my muse and how I'm just DYING to write a fic for it - welp, tonight I got up off my ass and did just that XP
> 
> *could* be read as Jorian if you want to ;3 but doesn't have to be so I left it as gen~
> 
> Enjoy! ^^

“You’re quiet tonight.”

John had looked up from his bowl of noodles (stir fried with Thai peanut sauce – an interesting taste, but he was getting used to it) to catch Dorian staring out of the window. He hadn’t been blinking, and his temples were lighting up.

Dorian turned his gaze from the window, fixing his eyes on John.

“You were quite snarky earlier,” John said, returning to his food. It was actually a rather difficult process; the bastard chopsticks weren’t cooperating. “Sassing me about getting into shape?”

He hears Dorian scoff. “It seemed appropriate, given previous circumstances. I’m not sure ‘disco face’ is a normal term of address.”

John glanced up, the beginnings of a grin on his face, when he caught sight of Dorian’s eyes. His lip was quirked in that quintessential smirk of his, but the humor wasn’t in his eyes.

John looked back down at his bowl. “C’mon man, talk to me. What’s up?” He stuck his chopsticks into the noodles, but the damn things kept running away from them. It was Dorian’s fault anyway; _Using the chopsticks with the rubber band attached to one end statistically improves your chances of eating successfully with them_ , he had said. John doesn’t know why he listened to him. Why couldn’t he have been less chatty then?

But no, he was quiet _now_ ; now, when something was wrong with him, when he actually _should_ be talking. John kept poking at his food, waiting for Dorian to speak up.

Finally having successfully gotten another (spoonful? chopstick-full?) clump of noodles onto the chopsticks and into his mouth, he looked back at Dorian, who was staring down at the table. His processors were still running – the blue lights firing underneath his skin – but at least he was blinking. A little.

It took a few moments, but Dorian finally spoke. “Remember when I told you about the guy who was holding the gun to my head… What I felt in that moment…”

John felt his jaw clench, flexed the fingers of the hand that wasn’t attempting to put food into his mouth. He should have known it would be something like this.

“He was talking to me,” Dorian continued, “I don’t know why. He asked me my name. He told me he never killed a man he didn’t know. Then he smiled at me… More like he was leering, though. Said that, then again, I wasn’t a man, was I…”

John had stopped eating. He closed his eyes – both his fists clenched, now – and took in a deep breath. Then another. And another, until his hands slowly relaxed and his jaw loosened up. He rolled his shoulders and set his chopsticks down (damn useless sticks of wood), and opened his mouth with a sigh. “Dorian—”

“John, don’t—”

“No, you listen to me,” he growled, slamming his hand on the table – not too loud, but enough to draw the attention of a few patrons sitting nearby. His eyes were locked on Dorian’s, a clash of brown against blue.

“Now you listen to me, Dorian,” he began, voice low and steady. “I don’t ever wanna hear that come out of your mouth again, you hear me? Don’t you think like that. Do you understand?” Dorian looked away, but John kept talking.

“You are not – you’re not _not_ a man,” John said, wincing at the awkward phrasing. “I mean you’re not… Fuck, you’re just as human as me or anyone else in this place, alright?”

Dorian scoffed and turned his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Oh please, John… I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. I was shot in the chest, too many times to count, and I just kept on walking—”

“Those are trivial differences,” John interrupted, “and they don’t mean anything.”

“But how can you say that, John? It’s those so-called trivial things that keep me from being human.”

“I am telling you, they _don’t matter_ , Dorian,” John said, raising his voice. “Not to me, and not to anyone else who’s got a shred of common sense. Being a man – being _human_ is so much more than just… eating, and sleeping, and being able to bleed. Dammit Dorian, it is _so_ much more than that. You said it yourself. You can feel. You have intuition. Hell, you’re way more compassionate than I’ll ever be.” He saw Dorian’s lips quirk up in a smile, a quick one, but a genuine one, one that might have even reached his eyes.

He continued. “You save people. You almost – no, you _did_ sacrifice yourself, for me. That’s how you ended up under that gun in the first place, isn’t it?

“And that man standing behind it, holding it to your head… that so-called ‘man’ shot people, in cold blood. Innocent people. He’s murdered, taken precious human lives, for money. And he felt absolutely no remorse in doing it.”

Dorian was looking down at the table. His processors had stopped lighting up, and he was blinking normally again.

“Hey, look at me,” John said, reaching out to grab Dorian’s arm and waiting until he lifted his head to meet John’s eyes. John stared back at him, eyes filled with all the sincerity he could muster.

“You’re more a man than he’ll ever be. You know that, right?”

Dorian stared at him for a moment, then ducked his head, a small smile on his lips. “Thanks, John,” he muttered.

“Don’t mention it,” John said, sitting back and picking up his chopsticks. “Seriously,” he said, pointing them at Dorian, “we’re never to speak of this again, capiche? Now, eat your damn noodles.”

Dorian chuckled. “I don’t eat, John.”

“And I don’t give a fuck. Besides you can, can’t you? You don’t need to is what you mean. I don’t think they’d make you almost human but leave that bit out. Now shove that shit down your artificial gullet before I have to do it myself.”

Dorian smiled at him, a soft one, and turned to his food. John watched as he picked up his rubber band-less chopsticks and deftly scooped a pile of noodles into his mouth. John fumbled with his own; the noodles slipped off of them and plopped sadly back into the bowl. He stared at it, annoyed.

Damn useless bastards.


End file.
